


Speak No Evil

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Assult, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being assaulted by a group of hunters, Dean struggles to make sense of the attack and to make sure that no one ever finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak No Evil

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Focuses on the aftermath of a gang rape that occurred before the story, but is revisited non-graphically in memories. Also contains a sexual assault and strong language.

The only thing on John’s mind as he shoved open the motel room door was finally getting some rest. Sleep was a waste of time, but a necessary one. While he’d wanted this hunt over and done tonight, that just wasn’t happening.

One of the many pitfalls of working with other hunters was the loss of control. Normally John gave an order and Dean followed, no bitching and moaning or questions asked. Throw other hunters into the mix and it turned into a damn committee. Everyone felt the need to discuss the obvious when all they really needed was to grab their guns and stop running their mouths.

Then there was trust. That word didn’t rank high in John’s vocabulary. He trusted himself and he trusted his sons where it really mattered. There were a few other rare individuals that made the list and a few others he trusted with his life, but not with his wallet.

Plenty of hunters were only in it because no other part of society would have them. A tickle in his gut told John that Paul and the other hunters they were working with against this overblown tulpa fit that category. They weren’t good men, but word was that they were damn good hunters capable of getting the job done. For John, the jury was still out on that one.

He hadn’t hauled ass across three states just to sit on his hands, but he needed the backup. No one else wanted to move in tonight, which left John with nothing to do but make last minute arrangements and hope like hell that tomorrow was soon enough. Teamwork was a royal bitch and tonight, his son wasn’t much better.

When John had told Dean they were getting together to talk with the other hunters, it hadn’t been a question. He’d told his son to grab a jacket and meet him in the car. Dean had said no. For reasons completely beyond John, Dean had insisted on staying in the room to research. John had been more than half tempted to pull out the holy water.

Three hours later, Dean was lucky. The lecture John had been rehearsing in his head felt like too much work to deliver tonight. John dropped his bag on the floor and opened his mouth to deliver the abbreviated version of his reprimand only to find that he was standing in the room alone.

Dean’s bag was by the table, but the books hadn’t been unpacked. The only evidence that Dean had been here was a far too large line up of beer bottles. The air was foul, more so than when they had checked in, and when his ears honed in on the bathroom he knew he would have to make time for that lecture after all.

His hand momentarily froze on the bathroom doorknob when the hacking gagging within bled to chocked sobs. Forgetting his irritation, John flung open the bathroom door, letting the doorknob thud hard against the wall. Instantly the desperate sounds within gave way to heavy silence.

Dean was curled on the floor, knees tucked beneath him, white knuckles gripping the edge of the toilet seat. His son’s cheek pressed against the ceramic as if his head was too heavy to support while his quaking shoulders were squared defiantly. Uneven breaths jarred the silence.

“Touch me again and I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

The huffed words were difficult to make out, but what he thought he heard was enough to push John past shock and into action. “Dean, what the hell happened?”

With a few quick strides he closed the distance between himself and his son. Panic filled Dean’s reddened eyes as they locked onto him. It was a fear beyond Dean being apprehensive of John’s reaction; it was fear enough to freeze John in his tracks.

Sloppily Dean used his sleeve to wipe his mouth clean before scrambling to his feet. Pain creased his features. With a sharp jerk, Dean pulled up and fastened the jeans that John hadn’t realized were loose at his son’s hips. A shaky hand swiped at Dean’s glistening cheeks.

At the sight of his fragile son, John was ready to tear something apart. Dean’s silence was pushing him over the edge. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

His son flushed the toilet and turned towards the sink. While John impatiently waited for an answer Dean took his time splashing cold water over his face. When at last the water shut off Dean grabbed a towel and buried his face for longer than it took to dry water. Dean leaned back against the counter, fidgeting with the facecloth while his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Word to the wise,” Dean spoke hoarsely. “Stay the hell away from the nachos.”

John narrowed his eyes in an evaluating stare. “Dean, look at me.”

There was a slight shake of Dean’s head and a slow intake of a steadying breath before Dean’s distant stare finally pulled up from the linoleum. While Dean’s gaze set in John’s general direction, his son refused to meet his eyes.

Barely concealed hurt tainted Dean’s features pointing to far more than bad nachos. Dean’s eyes closed in apparent exhaustion or maybe just avoidance. Either way it made Dean look too young with a naked vulnerability that was foreign on his face. Dean hadn’t looked this young since he was four years old.

Like John, Dean had only closed himself off further since Sam had left. It made things easier on the surface, but John knew it wasn’t for the best, especially not for Dean. For the first time in too long John felt compelled to reach out to his son. When his hand brushed Dean’s shoulder, his son jerked away. Dean’s eyes flashed up wildly as he took a step back.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered over oddly swollen lips.

It was then John realized that Dean’s cheeks were unevenly flushed. One was a deep red while the other remained pale. Someone had punched his son. When John reached towards Dean’s face, his son again backed away then squeezed past him out of the bathroom.

“It’s nothing,” Dean muttered.

“It sure as hell looks like something.”

“It was stupid, okay?” Dean froze, staring at the far wall with his back to John. “There was this girl...”

“Dean...” It was less a word and more an agitated sigh that happened to resemble his eldest son’s name. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I know...I know, okay?” Dean’s tone was edgy before fading to defeat. “It’s done. It’s not gonna happen again and the nachos are out of my system. Can we just talk about the hunt?”

It wasn’t okay, but John wasn’t wasting another minute on lectures that his twenty-two year old son should have outgrown the need for in high school. John shot a glance towards the gathering of empty bottles, but decided he didn’t want to know. Whatever had happened had obviously gone badly. Maybe it would at least make Dean think twice before repeating whatever stunt he’d pulled this time.

“Paul can’t get the group together tonight, which is probably for the best.” John sent Dean a poignant look while he took off his holster and set his gun aside on the dresser. “We’re moving in tomorrow morning.”

His son’s posture stiffened, his fist reflexively clenching. “When did you talk to Paul?”

“Ten minutes ago. What now?”

Shifting anxiously, Dean paced away from him. “We don’t need that son of bitch to do this.”

Agitation John thought he had pushed aside again rose to the surface. The strangely nervous glance Dean sent over his shoulder was justified. At this rate, John was going to ream him.

“Dad, you gotta watch your back. He’s not the friend you think he is.”

Whatever juvenile game Dean was playing with Paul had to end. It was bad enough John had to work with Paul and the others. He sure as hell didn’t need Dean feeding crap into the already tenuous working relationship.

It had been like this since they arrived in town and he realized now that avoiding Paul had been the objective behind Dean’s ‘research’ session. Even though neither he nor Dean would say it aloud, John knew why his son was acting out. Dean didn’t want to work with anyone aside from Sam, which was too bad. Sam wasn’t coming back.

“You got a problem with him, deal with it. You screwing around and stirring up trouble with the only real help I’ve got on this hunt isn’t helping a damn thing. Are we clear?”

Dean swallowed hard, his face again paling before his expression hardened. “Crystal,” he replied tersely.

“Drop the attitude, Dean. Ten people are already dead. Are you going to let more join them just because you couldn’t manage simple teamwork?”

“No, sir.”

While he fought to reign in his frustration, John for the first time looked at the room’s beds. The sheets of one were rumpled, the comforter half strewn on the floor while the other had a jacket that didn’t belong to either of them flung over it.

“Damn it, Dean. You brought her here? What the hell were you thinking? I leave you alone to work for few hours and you can’t manage to keep your pants on?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean flinch. When he turned the full force of his glare on his son, Dean shrunk back into himself further than John had intended. It wasn’t like Dean to be this careless. A slip up was one thing, but if Dean thought he was going to make a tradition out of this shit his boy had another thing coming.

With a weary sigh, John snatched the vintage lambskin jacket off the bed. After a moment, the familiarity sunk in. “What’re you doing with Paul’s jacket?” He was met only with silence. “Dean? If this is some stupid prank...”

“It’s not,” Dean barked in reply. John shot him a warning glare and Dean returned to counting the threads of the carpet. “He stopped by...him and some other guys.”

“Cory and Frank?”

“I guess.” Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. They didn’t exactly introduce themselves.”

There was no point in trying to interpret Dean’s bitter words. It all made enough sense. A surprise visit from Paul would have been enough to set Dean off. He should have called to let Dean know that Paul wanted to see some of the books first hand, but he hadn’t imagined that working with another group of hunters would turn into such a drama for his usually cooperative son.

“Did you give them what they wanted?”

Dean again looked green and his next intake of air was shaky. His jaw clamped hard right before he turned away, this time fumbling to grab his jacket before making for the door.

“You’re not walking out.” It was a clearly stated order yet Dean still had his eyes fixed on the exit. “If you’re gonna be sick, we got a bathroom.”

“I just gotta get out of this room.”

There was desperation in the words that John rarely heard from Dean. John’s remaining exasperation was replaced with worry. Something was wrong far beyond food poisoning or some girl Dean had met an hour ago. Paul had obviously said something, undoubtedly about Sam, to put Dean on the warpath.

“Dean, sit down.”

Dean tensed like a cornered tiger desperate for escape. When John moved to block the door, Dean shoved past him, hard enough that if it had been anyone else John would have retaliated with brutal force. Instead he was simply shocked. It was something Sam would have pulled, but never Dean. His son stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I...I’m just sorry.” Dean pulled open the door without looking back. “I’m going out.”

There was finality in the words that even John didn’t dare question before Dean slipped out the door. Whatever was on Dean’s mind wasn’t up for discussion. John had chased away one son too many already. He wasn’t going to lose the other. If Dean needed space to deal with Sam’s absence, John would have to give it to him.

~~~

While Dean was out John pretended to sleep despite the urge to make use of the time. Dean had left to evade talking to him. If Dean returned to find the room’s lights still on he would avoid coming in. John didn’t want to do anything to keep Dean out in the night alone one minute longer. His only option was to lay in the dark and hope like hell his son wasn’t out doing something stupid.

Just when John was ready to tear the town apart looking for Dean, his son slinked back into the room. Lying still in the bed, John watched Dean’s silhouette move with an atypical uncertainly, noticing for the first time Dean’s uneven gait. The frown on John’s lips deepened when Dean opted to settle into the room’s corner chair, avoiding the bed that had yet to be made.

By the time night gave way to morning John was exhausted and Dean was still in the chair. His son’s feet were planted flat on the floor, legs twitching uneasily while his hands gripped the armrests like the hold was the only thing keeping him in the chair. Dean’s eyes were open and staring blankly across the room towards the door. The dark circles under his eyes said that Dean had gotten as much rest as John had.

When John shifted in the bed, Dean jumped half out of the chair and scanned the room in search of a fight. It was then John noticed the pistol clutched in his son’s hand. Dean met John’s eyes for a split second before shoving the gun into the waistband of his jeans.

Sitting up in the bed, John swung his legs over the edge and ran a hand over the rough stubble of his cheeks while he gave his eyes time to focus. As soon as John looked back to him, Dean was out of the chair and again making a beeline for the door.

“I’m gonna grab some coffee.”

“Dean. Stop.”

The tone was forceful enough to freeze an avalanche in its tracks. It was even strong enough to stop his son. Dean diverted his path from the door and instead slipped into the bathroom as if it was where he intended to go from the start.

“Talk to me, Dean.”

“Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

The reply was delayed and an equal mix of uncertain and smart-ass. John knew damn well the uncertainty was not due to Dean being confused about what John was asking and the sarcasm was a cover that further proved something really was wrong. John stared expectantly towards the bathroom, but Dean said nothing further and didn’t come out.

John pushed off the bed and joined his son. Dean was standing in front of the sink, leaning over the counter and staring distastefully at his own reflection in the mirror. His son abruptly straightened his stance when he noticed John watching him. John’s lips pressed into a grim line as he noted the darkened bruise along Dean’s jaw.

“What’s gotten into you?” John asked.

“I’m not gonna let it screw up the hunt.”

Dean’s words were thick with shoved down pain and hit home like a sucker punch to John’s gut. Last night he had thought Dean was just being a brat, now he knew it was something more and uselessly wished he could take back the words he had thrown at his obviously hurting son.

“I’m not asking about the hunt, I’m asking about you.” Dean’s brow furrowed. When John took a step closer, Dean again ducked away. “What happened last night?”

“I told you, there was this girl...well, she said she was a girl. Awkward.”

John stood firmly in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Everything about his stance screamed loud and clear that he wouldn’t budge an inch until Dean came up with an honest answer. Dean brushed his teeth and did everything short of read the dictionary before it finally came.

“I got into a fight with Paul and the guys,” Dean said. “I can’t work with them.”

Paul and his boys were some annoying sons of bitches. John got that and he didn’t like it anymore than Dean did. But this wasn’t about what he or his son wanted. It was about what they had to do to protect the people in this town.

“You can’t sit out hunts and throw punches just because some guy looks at you funny. I taught you better than that.”

Technically, with Paul’s help there was no reason John couldn’t finish this hunt without Dean. It was the principal, not the logistics, that John was concerned with. Letting Dean pick and choose who he could work with wasn’t a precedence John was willing to set. There were too few resources at their disposal.

“Can I count on you or not, Dean?”

His son grimaced, but finally met his eyes. “I’ll do whatever you need me to, you know I will.”

~~~

A few clipped ‘yes sir’s was all the further conversation Dean could manage. Between his silent panic and bruised ribs, just breathing was painful enough. At least Paul had only thrown a couple of punches to his face. The rest he could keep hidden from Dad even if the injuries took a couple of weeks to heal.

When he settled into the passenger seat of the Impala, his movements were tentative. Gingerly he tried to shift into a comfortable position but froze the moment the driver’s side door creaked open. Dad’s eyes were on him, boring through him. Dean pretended not to notice.

He clung tenaciously to the physical pain, anything to avoid the runaway train of thoughts racing through his mind. This was ridiculous. There was no way he could keep it together sitting across a table from these guys. There was also no way out that wouldn’t make both Dad and Paul suspicious.

The other night he and Dad had met Paul at a rundown bar. Dean hadn’t given the man much thought outside of the hunt until Paul had come up behind him in the bathroom. While Dean had been taking a piss the guy had stepped well inside his personal bubble and told him how beautiful he’d be on his knees.

Dean told him off just on account that the guy was seriously creeping him out. He would have broken Paul’s nose then pumped him full of buckshot if he’d understood what the older man was saying.

When Paul had stopped by last night with a couple of friends, against his better judgment, Dean had let them in. He’d been downright civil with the skeevy jerks even as their questions had shifted from weird to invasive. Once he had naively confirmed that Dad wouldn’t be back any time soon, they’d grabbed him.

One minute they were sitting around drinking his beer and the next they were forcing him down, kicking the crap out of him. All of them were big guys and they were hunters. They’d stripped him. While he’d tried to throw punches three dudes just out of the blue started yanking at his clothes, slicing his t-shirt off with a knife they let scrape over his back. Dean hadn’t been able to process what was happening, let alone stop it.

By now he was used to monsters jumping him - that was life. But it had never been like last night. He had never felt so powerless since he had watched Mom die. It wasn’t demons or vengeful spirits, it was a few taunting humans taking turns crushing him into a trashy motel mattress.

When they were through Dean understood first hand what Paul had told him in the bathroom. Their bitter taste still lingered in his raw throat. He just didn’t understand why and it wasn’t just that they had done it. Despite the agony, despite every unbearable humiliation, he’d totally gotten off on it. He’d been in hell with a damn hard on. It turned out that Paul and his gang weren’t the only sick fucks in town.

So what the hell was he supposed to tell his dad - he got raped and he liked it? He didn’t like it. Just thinking about those sons of bitches again reared the sick taste of bile, left him hovering between wanting to curl into a ball and go on a shooting spree. But if he couldn’t control his own dick how the hell could he expect Dad to trust him with anything?

It was why he’d kept his mouth shut last night, not just with Dad, but while Paul and the others were hammering into him. It wasn’t the revolver digging into his temple. It was their promise that if he didn’t play along they’d bind him to the bedposts and leave him for Dad to find, rock hard and covered in their filth. He’d eat a bullet before he ever let Dad see him like that.

The bastards had taken his cell phone with Sam’s number on it. If he breathed a word to Dad they’d call his little brother and tell him every gory detail. That it had happened Dean could deal with. It was Dad and Sam knowing what a weak, sick freak he was that he couldn’t bear. Already he could see the way that Dad would look at him knowing what he’d let them do. He could see the pity and disgust in Sam’s eyes.

“Everything okay, Dean?”

The unexpected words jarred him from his thoughts. Sitting straighter in the seat, he pulled his head up from resting against the coolness of the window. His eyes fired a quick glance to Dad before fixing on the road ahead. Leaning back against the headrest, he sought comfort in the reassuring rumble of the Impala’s engine.

“Yeah, Dad. I’m fine.”

From the moment Dad had walked in on him last night Dean had spouted nothing but crap. It was getting easier. He clung to the hope that somehow it would keep getting easier, somehow the paralyzing panic would lift.

“Good. We’re here.”

Reluctantly Dean looked out the window to the all too familiar bar. He found himself grateful they’d skipped breakfast as his stomach restarted its somersault routine. Subconsciously his hand set over the throbbing bruise that resonated into the muscles of his forearm where they had clamped on to hold him down on the bed.

His breaths were shallow as he climbed out of the car and followed behind Dad. He ignored Dad’s impatient looks and gripe about him dragging his feet because the fact he could even move his lead weighted feet towards Paul’s hangout was the stuff of miracles.

It would be a million times easier if Dad wasn’t here. Maybe Paul would hurt him again, maybe he wouldn’t. Right now Dean didn’t give a rat’s ass either way. It wasn’t like it could hurt more than it already did. But with Dad at his side all it would take was one slip of the tongue from anyone in the room and Dean would lose what was left of his family.

They descended the cramped stairwell to the bar’s basement. It was poorly lit, the walls covered with the shredded remains of peeling wallpaper and air so stale it was heavy. Dean’s nausea intensified at the sound of Paul’s voice, just barely discernable over the twang of country music drifting from a room down the hall.

“That kid had the finest damn ass this side of the Mississippi. Who would’ve guessed Winchester’s...”

Dean coughed as loud as he could manage. His hand gripped his side at the spark of pain the sharp muscle spasm rippled through him. By the time Dad turned on him with a questioning glare Dean’s hand had returned to his pocket. All conversation in the room ahead had cut out before Dad stepped into the doorway.

“Hey, Winchester!” Paul greeted with a wave of his beer. “About damn time you and your boy showed. Where is the kid?”

Like a swimmer preparing for a deep-water dive, Dean gulped several breaths before stepping from the hallway and into view. He risked a glance to Paul and the others. Despite what his memory told him about these fearsome monsters, they looked like people, just guys sitting around a table grabbing some cold ones. Somehow that made it worse.

The smile that cracked over Paul’s lips left Dean silently gagging. He knew how those rough lips felt smashed against his, against every part of him. “Had a real good time with you last night, kid,” Paul said, casually drawing out each word. “You got a sweet son there, John.”

While he looked surprised, Dad gave a sharp nod of agreement. “He’s a damn fine boy.” Dad wouldn’t think so if he knew the truth. “Now what do we got?”

Dean hung back near the exit even as Dad moved forward to join the men at the table. It wasn’t that he was afraid of what Paul would do to him. He just really didn’t want to be here to see Dad’s face if the shit hit the fan. That and he couldn’t force his legs to move closer.

These men had spent last night shoving into him. Now they were sitting with his Dad. They were laughing and he knew by the smirks they flashed him when Dad looked the other way that he was the butt of their joke.

“We got plenty of chairs,” Paul told him.

At the words, Dean drew his eyes up to lock with Paul’s. A hundred questions and curses lay silent on his tongue. Defiantly he lifted his chin, glaring daggers at the man. They might think he was their bitch, but they were dead wrong. He was going to find a way to flay each one of the bastards alive before they even thought about going anywhere near Sam.

“Little early for Miller time, isn’t it?” Dean asked. The words were far more choked than the smug casual he had been shooting for, but Dad didn’t seem to notice.

“Dean, enough.”

At Dad’s sharp warning Dean dropped his head and Paul snickered. Inside the pockets of his jacket, Dean’s fists tightened if only to stop himself from reaching for his gun.

“I’m gonna grab the books out of the car,” Dean mumbled.

It was a piss poor excuse, but the only one that surfaced in his disjointed head. While he saw the question on Dad’s face, before it solidified into words, Paul pushed back his chair. The man set aside his empty beer and stretched as he stood.

“I’ll help you there, sport,” Paul said.

Taking a step back, Dean shook his head. “No.” It was the first forceful word he managed to get out. Too forceful he quickly realized as all eyes in the room settled on him. “Thanks, but I got it.”

Paul stepped closer and it took everything Dean had to just stand still. “You should really let me help you.” The man turned his back on Dad and cocked Dean a suggestive brow.

“Dean?”

This time Dad’s voice was wary, silently asking if something was going on. Paul simultaneously sent a look that only Dean could see, one that told him just what would happen if he said things were anything but okay. He couldn’t look Dad in the eyes. Instead Dean just nodded and turned to leave.

“It’s cool, Dad.”

Every muscle in Dean’s body ached with tension as he walked down the hallway with Paul’s footsteps falling directly behind him. Every step pulled at wounds the man had given him. Every instinct told Dean to shoot the son of bitch here and now or run like hell, anything but wait for what was coming.

At the bottom of the claustrophobic staircase, Dean stepped aside and motioned for Paul to go first. The man snorted softly and stepped forward. He didn’t walk past, but stopped directly in front of Dean, looking down at him as he backed him against the wall without actually touching him.

“You first, kid. I wanna enjoy the view.”

“Go to hell,” Dean whispered, shoving hard against Paul’s oversized gut.

Unfazed, Paul looked back down the hall. “Hey, John!"

“No!” Dean hissed.

A moment later he heard Dad’s exasperated reply. “What?”

“I’m going,” Dean insisted quietly. “Just fucking shut up.”

“Never mind,” Paul called back to Dad. “We’re all good.”

Paul latched onto Dean’s arm, jerking him part way up the stairs and out of view of the hallway before pinning him against the wall. “You watch your mouth you pissy little slut.” They were pressed so tightly together on the stairs that Dean cringed against the mist of spit splattered over his cheeks as the man spat the hushed words. “Or you might just lose something you’ll miss more than your daddy.” Paul’s hand smacked solidly against the crotch of Dean’s pants.

“Bite me,” Dean shot back with a grimaced sneer.

“You want me to tell your daddy just how hard his little bitch came onto me? ‘Cause that’s just what you’re gonna do.”

“Only thing I’m gonna do is kill your ugly ass.”

“Go for it. I’m sure your daddy will die happy knowing he’s got a cock slut for a son.” Paul idly teased the zipper of Dean’s jeans up and down. “Just so you know, if I don’t walk back into that room in one handsome piece then it’s hasta la vista for your daddy.”

Terror pumped through Dean’s blood. He struggled not to reveal it in his eyes. “That’s gonna be a problem because that face of yours sure as hell ain’t winning any beauty contests.”

Paul flicked out a switchblade, leaning in even closer as he pressed the flat side of the blade to Dean’s cheek. “Keep up the attitude and neither will yours, Miss America.”

While he swallowed hard, Dean kept his eyes locked with Paul’s. “Those two morons could never get the drop on my dad.”

“He’s not as good as he thinks. John might not know me, but I sure as hell know him.” Paul pulled Dean’s zipper the rest of the way down and yanked the leather of Dean’s belt free from the buckle. “That great hero of yours, he doesn’t give a shit about anyone. I’m gonna show him collateral damage.”

Dean’s brow creased in confusion. A pained hiss slipped through his gritted teeth as the knife’s blade nicked his cheek. Instead of cutting further, Paul closed the knife and returned it to his pocket.

“Whatever you think he did, you’re wrong,” Dean said. “He saves lives and if they lay one goddamn finger on him...”

“Tough words for the kid that can’t even watch his own back.” Reaching behind Dean, Paul shoved his hand beneath Dean’s shirt. The man ran his calloused hand down Dean’s spine until his pudgy fingers curled around the handle of the pistol at the small of Dean’s back. “Now take off your pants.”

“What?” Dean shot an anxious glance towards the hallway. He could hear Dad talking over the drone of music. Desperately he fought to tame his hitched breaths. “Not here.”

“Right here. Cory and Frank will sound the alarm if Daddy heads this way. Now strip so I can watch your naked ass waggle up those steps to the bar or Daddy learns everything.”

“He’ll kill you.”

Paul pointed Dean’s own gun at his face and clicked off the safety. “We’ll see who’s the quicker draw. Either way you’ll be hunting solo.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“What did I tell you about that mouth?”

The tip of the gun’s barrel pressed against Dean’s trembling lips. He didn’t struggle, didn’t move, didn’t even breath. His eyes closed as the barrel nudged his mouth open. He tasted the metallic tinge on his tongue. Saliva pooled in his mouth as the gun’s barrel slid far enough to make swallowing a struggle. When it pushed further Dean gagged. With a disapproving shake of his head Paul jerked out the moistened pistol.

“Someone didn’t do his homework.”

Dean choked a moment longer before spitting at Paul’s boots. “You point that at me again, you damn well better pull the trigger,” Dean growled, the words scratchy in his irritated throat.

“Don’t tempt me.” Paul nudged the pistol against the open fly of Dean’s jeans. “Now give me a show and make it snappy.”

Of all things, Dean was grateful that Paul had already undone his pants and belt. His trembling fingers weren’t operational enough to work buttons. He walked up a couple steps both in search of air and to find room to bend forward.

He jerked the laces loose then carefully nudged off his boots. He couldn’t hear his dad right now, but knew he was just down the hall. His chest clenched painful, his heart pounding at that singular thought, which overwhelmed his mind far beyond the roaming eyes of the man holding his gun.

“When you get up there, I’m not gonna rape you again.” Dean pushed the denim down past his thighs as the man spoke, his stomach knotted so tightly he couldn’t see straight. His thumbs looped beneath the elastic of his boxers as he tried not to hear Paul’s words. “You’re gonna get on your knees and beg me to...”

Paul grunted loudly and Dean turned so quickly that he nearly lost his footing on the steps. By the time his eyes again found Paul, the man was in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. There were more grunts of pain as his Dad’s boot drove a quick succession of kicks into the man’s gut.

Dean stood too frozen even to pull up his pants. His father’s face was a mask of rage the likes of which Dean had never before seen. As he watched Dad beat Paul he couldn't help but wonder if he was next. He didn't care if he was going to get the shit beat out of him again. All he wanted was for his dad to not have seen him like this.

Sheer panic flooded through him as he fumbled for words as much as for his pants. His eyes searched for anything to look at aside from his enraged father. “Dad, I...”

"Dean, get out of here.”

“But, Dad...”

“Now, Dean!”

~~~

John stared blankly past the graffiti scratched mirror as the cold water ran over the spit skin of his knuckles. Whether or not Paul and the others had told him everything, it was enough. All he wanted was for the water swirling down the grimy drain to continue running red.

Despite his desire to take his time with Paul, John was a man of his word. In exchange for the truth he’d kept his promise. He’d let the bastards each off with a bullet to the head. It was more of a courtesy than any of them had deserved.

Turning off the water, he shook his hands dry. He shouldn’t have left Dean alone as long as he already had, but he didn’t know how he could possibly face his son. The image of Dean standing half naked in the stairwell, his eyes terrified and desperate, was seared into John’s mind.

The look was the same one Dean had worn in the bathroom last night. John had been blind enough to dismiss it, to dismiss everything for the sake of convenience. And Dean had let him.

He was being selfish hiding down here when his son needed him. It was bad enough that he had let this happen, he didn’t need to make it worse by letting it fester. He was just afraid he would fail at making it better. There were no words he could say or thing he could do that would make this go away.

With a cold emptiness in the pit of his stomach, John ascended the stairs he’d found his son trapped on. The slummy main street was still relatively empty in the early morning hour with only the occasional sound of distant traffic. It was for the best that no one was around as John single-mindedly strode down the sidewalk back to his son.

His steps slowed and he forced a façade of calm. That mask shattered when he took in a clear view of the empty Impala. He jogged the last few yards, breath held as he hoped desperately to find Dean lying on the backseat. It was empty.

“Dean?”

A quick survey of the surrounding area revealed nothing but vacant alleyways. John grabbed his cell phone, hit the speed dial and impatiently waited for his son to answer. As he listened to the phone ring his jacket pocket vibrated. The phone he had taken from Paul was Dean’s. With a frustrated growl he shoved both phones back into his jacket.

He was reasonably certain that Paul, Cory and Frank had been the only men involved, but the more he replayed the events in his head the more certain he also became of something else. That look in Dean’s eyes hadn’t been aimed towards Paul. When his son had grabbed his boots and taken off up the stairs, it was John he had been running from.

It may be that these men had filled Dean’s head with lies about what John would do if he found out, but there had to already have been an existing fear for Dean to believe the lies. John was sickened not by Dean, but by himself. If he lost his remaining son over this, Paul would soon be seeing him in the pits of hell.

If Paul’s description of events was even half true then Dean had been disguising severe injuries. That wouldn’t stop Dean from taking off on foot, but it would slow him down. The only real hope John had was that Dean would remember his training and not wander off unprepared, which left only one place Dean would go. John threw open the car door and sped back to the motel.

When John stepped into the room the air was still, the only sounds filtering in from another room down the hall. Despite it being late morning, with the door shut the room was dark. The heavy curtains were drawn over the window. It took John’s eyes time to adjust before he could see his son alone in the darkness.

In the corner chair Dean sat slumped with his pistol on his lap and a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. John saw himself sitting in that chair and himself was the last thing he wanted either of his sons to become.

Somehow Dean had always retained Mary’s tenderness. Ordinarily John viewed it as a weakness because it made Dean vulnerable in a way Sam would never be. It was also what made his son who he was. Looking at the defeated posture and hardened eyes of the boy in the corner, John feared he was on the precipice of losing that, of losing all that remained of Mary.

John flipped on the light and Dean flinched. His son’s bloodshot eyes were locked on the rumpled sheets of the bed. Beside the chair was Dean’s packed bag. For a moment Dean continued to stare at the bed before he stood up. His movements were hesitant as he set the bottle on the table and fixed his eyes in John's general direction.

“Dad, I know you want me gone. Hell, I don’t blame you, but just hear me out.”

It was more than John could hear. He wordlessly moved forward to pull Dean into his arms before his startled son could manage to slip away. Beneath the heavy layers Dean wore, John could feel the strong muscles tense with uncertainty.

“They told me everything, Dean.”

It wasn’t likely true, but he needed Dean to believe it. John didn’t want his son to feel as though he had anything to hide.

“No,” Dean muttered into John’s shoulder with a shake of his head. “Paul promised.”

The words were spoken in sheer frustration, not commonsense, but on some level his son must have believed he could trust the word of the man who had raped him. His son had far more experience with monsters than humans and Paul had keyed in to abuse that. John closed his eyes at the reminder of how much Dean had to lose.

“I tried....”

Whatever Dean was going to say caught in his throat. John’s grip tightened as Dean struggled for control over his unsteady breaths. Holding his boy clutched to his chest he played over what Paul and the others had said. What they had done, what they had taken from Dean, was something he could never return to his son.

The only thing that hurt more was the fact that Dean hadn’t planned on telling him any of it. That Dean didn’t trust him was on John, not Paul, but he didn’t know where he’d gone wrong or how to fix it. He didn’t know to fix any of this.

“Dad? You okay?”

Dean’s words were painfully unsure. Reluctantly John let go of his son only so that he could pull back far enough to meet Dean’s pained eyes. John didn’t bother to brush away the moisture that rimmed his own eyes. This wasn’t the time to disguise his pain. He needed for his son to see it in the hopes that Dean would understand how far from the truth his misconceptions were.

“No, Dean. I’m not okay. My son was beat to hell and he didn’t think he could come to me.”

Despite Dean’s stubborn defiance a tear cascaded over his lashes, running down his bruised cheek. His son tensed his jaw then took in a deep inhale. “I let them do it.”

“Bullshit.” Dean tried to jerk away as John’s hand grasped the hem of his shirt. “Look at yourself.” Carefully John peeled up his son’s t-shirt to reveal the mass of discolored blotches he knew would be marring his son’s skin. “You didn’t let anyone do anything.”

Dean still tried to hide his eyes. “You could’ve stopped them.”

The words gutted John to the core. He should’ve been there to stop them, but he knew that wasn’t what Dean was saying. His son thought John would blame him for being raped, that he would think him weak for not having fought off three large, armed men that John had all but put on him. If that was the message he had unintentionally drilled into his sons then it was little wonder Sam had left. It was for the best that he had.

“I know I’m no use to you. I just came to get my stuff. I meant to leave, I did. I just...”

“Just stop, Dean.” John’s words were scarcely short of a plea. The tone clearly startled Dean far more than a shout would have. “You gone is the last damn thing I want. You hear me?”

In Dean’s eyes confusion intermingled with disbelief. "But I screwed everything up." If it was possible, John found room to hate himself more. “I know you needed the backup on this hunt.”

“You listen to me, son, I'm the one that screwed up.” John again reached out, his hands firmly clamping onto Dean’s subtly quaking shoulders. While he was apprehensive at the contact, this time Dean didn’t try to pull away. John waited for Dean to meet his eyes. “And I already got all the backup I need.”


End file.
